


A Drowning Instinct

by Ryenan



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Broken Bones, CPR, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Drowning, First Time Saying "I love you", Gen, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Monster of the Week, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Poisoning, Polish Stiles Stilinski, Possessed Stiles Stilinski, Pre-Slash, well prepared Peter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-04-21 13:44:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14286207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryenan/pseuds/Ryenan
Summary: The tubs are cold, the ice and metal chilling Stiles and slowing his heart rate as soon as he steps in. Lydia holds him under, under the premise that she is closest to him. That she can somehow anchor him.A beacon of death is not a good anchor.A different take on Stiles' post-ice bath possession! This time he's possessed by a Wodnik, a polish water demon, and needs Peter's help to survive it.





	A Drowning Instinct

**Author's Note:**

  * For [twothumbsandnostakeincanon (somanyofthekids)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/somanyofthekids/gifts).



The tubs are cold, the ice and metal chilling Stiles and slowing his heart rate as soon as he steps in. Lydia holds him under, under the premise that she is closest to him. That she can somehow anchor him.

A beacon of death is not a good anchor. She calls the darkness and it answers, flowing through to Stiles when it finds it cannot touch her. It subsumes him, swirling around his mind and soul like the water around his body. It seeps into every fiber of his being, like the water that soaks his clothes.

The darkness fights with Stiles while he thrashes, until it snuffs out his spark like water would a candle.

Deaton’s power alone cannot sustain the three. They were relying on Stiles’ raw power to keep the ritual intact, to sustain them under the water.

Scott lurches out of his tub first, clawing Deaton’s forearm to shreds in his effort to be let out of the tub, to not drown. Isaac is quick to pull Allison out once he realizes Scott is not just fighting it, But Lydia has already slumped over, half in the ice bucket, clutching Stiles and trying to pull him up.

 

Deaton is the first to speak.

“The darkness…the effects of dying, and being so close to Lydia, consumed him. I’m sorry, but Stiles is gone.”

“I haven’t screamed.”

“What?”

“I’m a banshee, banshees scream when people die. He’s still alive, Scott, he – “

They haul Stiles’ body out of the water as quickly as they can, laying him out on the floor.

“You may have to give him the bite, Scott. His magical core is completely gone.”

“No,” Scott spits out, “No. Just – wait –“ He continues to pound on Stiles chest rhythmically. Allison breathes for him, cradling his head against the concrete floor.

Lydia sits as far away as she can, dripping and shaking, cold and choked. There is no scream in her throat or ringing in her ears, but Stiles looks dead on the floor.

 

There is no gasping or yelling, no dramatics, just the twitch of his hand, fingers wrapping around Scott’s sleeve. Eyes opening, face twisting away from Allison’s hands, feet knocking together. He is shivering, moments after being revived, lips and toes and fingers much too pale. The shadows under his eyes seem darker against the white wash of bloodless skin, his hair just as dark. It makes his eyes shine, light like gold around blown pupils.

“Stiles?”

He can only wheeze in response, but Scott is jubilant all the same.

“Oh my g-d, Scott, we have to get him to a hospital.”

Allison and Deaton help Scott lift Stiles, but Lydia stays on the floor, blocking the doorway.

“Lyds, he’s alright, you have to move –“

“You can’t,” She says, staring into the distance. “You can’t take him to the hospital. He’s – “

“Lydia? Lydia?”

“What do you hear, Lydia?” Deaton crouches in front of her, takes her hand, tries to focus her attention.

“It’s what I don’t hear. A heartbeat.”

 

##

 

Scott, for once, does the smart thing and gets Stiles the hell away from Deaton. Allison helps Lydia to her feet, conveniently pinning Deaton in the corner, while Scott and Isaac hustle Stiles out of the clinic.

"Where do we take him?"

"I don't know," Isaac says, "To Derek?"

They do not find Derek. They do find Peter at the loft, however, and he has a keen look in his eye the moment Stiles crosses the threshold.

"Well, Stiles, you've gotten yourself in quite a predicament, haven't you?"

"Do you know what's going on? He doesn't have a heartbeat!"

"Yes, Scott, I noticed. First things first, however. Would you like a hot shower and some dry clothes, Stiles?"

Peter leads Stiles into the master bath, batting off Scott's insistent helping hands, and turns the shower on full blast so he can whisper without being heard.

"What are you?"

"What do you want me to be?" A ripple goes across his skin, pale to green to black scales and back again, and his eyes glow a deadly orange-red. There are sharp teeth in his mouth, thin pale claws on his hands, and then they are gone again.

"Vodyanoy."

"Wodnik. This nice boy is Polish, after all, you should use the right term."

"Is he still alive?"

"Oh yes. He says hello, is begging me to tell you that he loves you." Stiles – the thing holding Stiles' body hostage –laughs softly. "How pitiful. You won't ever get him back, this body is mine now. And if you try to kill me, this body will die."

"I love you too, Stiles," Peter says, hoping the trapped soul will hear him, understand him. "I love you too."

 

##

 

Not-Stiles showers, and Peter thinks and thinks and thinks. He takes his time fetching dry clothes, towels, trying to come up with a solution he can present to Scott, whose restless pacing is going to wear a track in the hardwood if he does not go out there soon.

Lydia and Allison have not arrived yet, so he only has to fool Scott and Isaac with his explanation.

"Have you spoken to Ms. Martin? Did she scream when his heart stopped?"

"No, she was there, she didn’t scream. We were - "

"I know what you were doing, Derek told me all about your silly plan. Get back to it, let me handle this. Stiles won't be pleased to have sacrificed so much only to lose his father."

"What's wrong with him? What do you know?"

"I know as much as you do about what ails him – he's dead. Thankfully, I have some experience with correcting that condition."

Isaac looks confused, understandably, but Scott looks angry.

"He's not dead - "

"You brought him here, you need to trust me. His soul is still bound to his body, but his heart has stopped, and I have to get it restarted before he starts to deteriorate."

"He wouldn't want you to kill anyone to save him. You can't kill anyone, Peter, or -"

Scott does not know shit about Stiles, evidently. That must be what his "I love you" was about, asking him to do what he thought was best, trusting Peter over Scott. Stiles wants to live, and he has asked Peter to save him.

"I didn't kill anyone when I brought myself back, did I? I won't even need Miss Martin's assistance this time. Now get out, go find your parents. I only have a few hours."

He does not know how long he has, or if there even is a time limit. He knows next to nothing, all bravado aside. Still, Isaac and Scott go back out into the night to search for the nemeton, for Melissa and John and Chris, the latter of which Peter cannot help but hope they do not find alive and well.

“You don’t know shit, do you, wolf?”

He had barely heard the soft steps of the Wodnik, definitely had not heard him put on the clothes Peter had left out. It does not matter, it turns out, because Stiles has shifted into such a monstrous form he is barely recognizable.

He is still smaller than Peter, by just a hair, and slim still. The swathes of pale skin Peter expected has been replaced with black fish scales and green sake skin, his fingers webbed and a tail heavy behind him on the floor.

“I know what you are, I know what happened. That should be enough.”

“Ha. You know what the wolves and the banshee saw, but you know nothing of this poor boy’s mind. He let me in, didn’t he, out of all the other things in the darkness clamoring for a foothold. I tricked him, with his mother tongue, and he let me in.”

Clever, clever, clever, even as he was dying. Stiles let the monster in, chose one he knew, one weak enough to control, to bleed the power from, if only he had a little help. A braggart of a monster, not smart enough to know you should never reveal your name.

“Would you like a cup of tea, Wodnik? I have a set of china tea cups you might like.”

 

##

 

He does have a nice set china cups, in a display cabinet above the fridge that he must stand on tiptoes to reach. They were intended to be a birthday gift, and still can be, minus one.

He boils water on the stove, carefully makes loose tea in a plain, dark pot that clashes with the pale near-translucent china cups. It is a custom pattern of wolfsbane flowers and jumbles of gently curling symbols, made just for Stiles. He did not purchase them with the expectation Stiles would initially realize their meaning, their value, but with the hope he would one day.   

There are tiny, tiny jiko kanji in the patterns of the leaves, along with the spiral he is so partial to and the occasional triskelion. There is no sign of McCall’s favored double circle among the hand painted vines and petals, but Stiles would not have noticed this until after McCall had fallen by the wayside.

The cups are beautiful, the simple set of two, and it is a shame to lose one.

More of a shame to lose Stiles, however.

The tea is not really tea, save in the sense that it is a blend of flowers and leaves steeped in hot water. It is not meant for drinking - It is poison, every poison flower and rock Peter has ever gotten his hands on, powdered and mixed with enough mint that maybe the Wodnik will not smell the sulfur and aconite, moonstone and tansy, salt and tobacco. Maybe.

Peter has to fake a sip before the Wodnik will even touch the proffered cup, and the tea burns his lips as the poison steam stings his cheeks and eyes.

“Be careful, it’s quite hot,” he says to hide the real reason for his raw lips and flushed cheeks.

Not-Stiles shifts back into his human skin, the slit mouth of a snake no good for drinking tea. He lifts the cup unperturbedly, examines the delicate details while Peter curses internally. Just drink it, he wants to scream, but does not let his body betray him – no twitch of the fingers, strain of the neck, sideways glance. Only one chance for this to work, ca not fuck it up with fear and impatience.

“How beautiful. I used to keep souls in these, you know, back before they were ever so pretty. When I had my own body, one without a screaming Czarodziejka in it. Teacups, with saucers for lids to keep the soul in – quite cramped in a teacup, they always tried to escape.”

“What do you want, Wodnik?”

“I want to go home, wilkołek. Wolf. But tea first, business second.” There is real bite in the word wolf, a hint of fang and a hint of a hiss, anger or irritation or both. Who knows how old the spirit is, using such an outdated pronunciation of wilkołak.

He raises the cup to his lips, finally, and takes a deep sip.

Peter’s heart freezes between beats as he waits to see what the creature will do, whether he will be burned by the poison or not even notice, go for Peter’s throat or just –

Not-Stiles drops the cup.

It hits the ground and shatters, thank g-d, the dark tea splashing across the floor and on to the living room carpet as the shards fly. There is a hint of ozone on top of the mint and acrid, poisonous scents, the spell on the cup releasing as the jiko kanji fragment across the shards of porcelain.

The Wodnik is dead and gone before Peter can even blink, but so is Stiles.

 

##

 

Epi-pen from the first aid kit on top of the fridge.

Needle to the neck, hope he does not miss, start compressions.

Break a rib, then two, then three.

Air into his lungs, a parody of a kiss, but he is still warm. Still warm.

One, two, three, breathe. One, two, three, breathe. One, two, three.

Fourth rib.

Sternum.

Still warm.

Cannot turn a dead boy, and he’s not an alpha any way.

Cannot watch him die.

One, two, three, breathe.

One, two, three, breathe.

One, two, three, gasp.

Stiles scratches weakly at Peter’s hands on his chest, too breathless to speak, to scream. His chest is already red with what will soon be massive bruises, and he can barely breathe through the pain, but his heart – his heart is beating.

“Stiles,” Peter says, breathless himself, as he sits back on his heels. Tea is seeping through his jeans, and there is a shard of ceramic in the soft tissue of his left knee, but none of that matters in the least. “I think we should take you to the hospital now.”

Thank you, Stiles does not say, still choking on painful, shallow breaths.

I love you, I meant it, thank you –

“No,” he manages, though Peter cannot be sure that is really what he said.

“No hospital? Melissa, then? One for yes, two for no.”

Stiles pats Peter’s foot once, weakly, in affirmation, and moving his arm hurts so much he cannot imagine curling up to protect his modesty, so he stays supine and starfished on the floor.

“Are you going to be okay if I go into the living room for my phone?”

Stiles taps the floor once, unwilling to lift his arm and face the pain.

“Is the Wodnik gone?”

One more soft tap, between labored breaths.

“Are you sure?”

A pained sigh, this time, along with a tap on the floor.

“Did you mean it? Do you trust me?” Do you love me, he does not say, but love and trust are the same thing for men like them, and Stiles knows what he is really asking.

“Yes,” Stiles manages to whisper, and taps the floor once.


End file.
